


Reprise

by Cardinal_Daughter



Series: Till We Loved [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: Repriseverb1. To repeatEzra Fell ventures to a molly-house in search of companionship. What he finds there will change his life forever.Human AU in the Victorian Era.Prequel toRefrainbut can be read as a standalone fic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Till We Loved [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582882
Comments: 31
Kudos: 263





	Reprise

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to Refrain, but it's not necessary to have read that one to understand this one. 
> 
> This story takes place in a vague late-1800's period, so there's some smushing together of historical people/events that might actually be a couple decades apart. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! Apologies for any mistakes.

**Reprise **

The White Rabbit is a place that technically doesn’t exist, but is equally well-known and frequented by certain gentlemen looking for a safe and discreet place to meet. Whether through great fortune or through great misfortune- and it all depends on who one asks- a certain gentleman can find their way to a nondescript green door at the end of a row of nondescript doors, knock three times in quick succession, then once more, pause five seconds, and then twice more in quick succession, and be allowed to step through to a world unlike anything they’ve ever known. Indeed, just as the tale that inspired the name, stepping through the door of the White Rabbit is akin to poor Alice tumbling down, down, _ down _ the rabbit hole and into a world of untold mystery and wonder. 

Such mystery and wonder is apparent on the masked face of Ezra Fell, who steps past the foyer and into a large study, where a flurry of similarly well dressed and masked gentlemen enjoy fine whiskey and cigars, finer conversation, and _ other _ enjoyments that aren’t quite suited for prying eyes (unless specifically requested and arranged prior). 

Through the black silk mask that hides his identity, Ezra looks around curiously at his surroundings. He wrings his hands together before clenching them into fists and dropping them to his sides before immediately lifting them to adjust his black mask and his equally black suit jacket. 

He hates black; has never thought the color suited him. He prefers lighter colors, those that are more complementary to his pale skin tone and blue eyes. But he’s never been a fashionable fellow, and the majority of gentlemen in London tend to favor black. And so Ezra dons black now, if only so that he might disappear into the crowd of similarly dressed men. 

It’s safer that way. 

He’s hardly paid attention to in the world outside; he hopes here he can find some balance of being ignored but also finding the company he so desperately seeks. 

He brushes off one sleeve of his dark jacket, feeling so out of place he worries he might draw attention from the sheer uncertainty he knows is rolling off him in waves. After a few moments, he’s approached by a young man holding a tray of complimentary glasses of champagne. Ezra takes one, noting the man keeps his eyes lowered demurely, and thanks him softly. 

He stands rigid once more, looking around nervously. At least he has something to occupy his hands, now.

Hoping the alcohol will dull the sense of overwhelming dread that seems to have rendered him incapable of doing anything more than standing silently, Ezra moves to take a seat on one of the many settees in the room. 

He shouldn’t be here. 

He should be back at his flat, tidying up and working out plans for his bookshop and lending library. He knows exactly how everything is going to work, but having a plan and having the funds and capacity to execute said plan are two vastly different beasts. Nevermind that his family has no interest in sinking in more money into the project: they’ve no interest in helping the general public have access to literature. They’re content to keep their books- most of which Ezra _ knows _ his siblings haven’t read- locked away with the pretense that such works are ‘too valuable to be shared’. 

What a load of bollocks. 

Now more annoyed than nervous, Ezra takes a sip of champagne to distract himself from one of the _ many _ reasons that drove him here in the first place. If his family were ever to learn he’d come here- 

It doesn’t bear thinking about. He came here to _ escape _ thoughts of family. And of everything else. 

Draining the glass, but too distracted to really enjoy the taste, Ezra looks around at all the gentlemen who seem completely at ease. Many have paid him little mind, but he has noticed a scant few who seem to be watching him from behind their masks. No one has approached him though, and Ezra can’t decide if he is disappointed or relieved by that. 

He glances down at his empty glass and contemplates approaching the bar for something a little stronger. Perhaps strike up a conversation with the gentleman with blond hair who keeps throwing glances his way. He seems nice enough. 

He tries to stand, but finds his legs no longer seem to be working. His nerves have rendered him useless, and he silently chastises himself for this overreaction. 

_ No one knows who you are, Ezra. And even if they _ do find out _ , you know the rules. No one will say anything. You’re safe here. It’s alright. It’s alright. _

“First time here?” 

Ezra startles slightly, looking up from where he’s seated to see a gangly man standing before him. He’s dressed in a sleek black suit, with a maroon cravat and trimmings of gold all over. He wears a similar black silk mask to Ezra’s- the standard for The White Rabbit- but this man’s eyes are obscured by a black birdcage veil that is attached from underneath his top hat. The only distinguishing part of the man is his fiery red sideburns that rest upon gaunt, sharp-as-glass cheeks. 

Ezra stares for a long moment, struck by how handsome the man is, before remembering himself and nodding politely. “Am I so obvious?”

“Most are when they come for the first time,” the man says as he rocks lazily back on his heels, resting his weight on a black and gold cane that curves to a snakes head at the handle. “Surprised no one else has jumped at the chance to snatch up the newcomer. Some of these blokes are like sharks- they can smell new blood.” 

“And are you such a shark, sir?” 

The red haired gentleman laughs. “Perhaps,” he says as he makes himself comfortable on the sette next to Ezra, who notes that despite their close proximity, the other man is keeping a respectable distance, small though it is. His left leg is stretched out straight, the right one bent and bouncing lazily. He leans back, almost too far, but despite the odd angle at which he sits, he looks completely comfortable and at ease. 

“Beatrice, by the way,” the man says as he sits up straight once more and holds out a hand to Ezra. 

Ezra blinks in confusion, then recalls that all the gentlemen here use fake feminine names to ensure privacy and secrecy, and that he’d had to provide one himself upon entrance into the building. He’d thought for a long moment on his own name, before settling on one. 

“Oh? Right. Yes, um… Ophelia.” He hesitates a moment, then ventures, cautiously, “Are you, perchance, named after the heroine in _ Much Ado About Nothing?” _

Beatrice grins. “I am,” he says with a hint of pride before he seems to realize something, and scowls. “And you’re named after that poor girl who went mad and drowned herself in _ Hamlet, _aren’t you?” 

“That’s quite an unflattering way to describe her, but yes, I am in fact named for her.” 

Beatrice scoffs. “Unflattering? She doesn’t_ do anything _ , then sings a silly song, throws around some flowers, and kills herself - _ off stage, _mind! Hamlet at least gets to die with all eyes on him!”

“Ophelia is more than a girl who goes mad,” Ezra huffs, turning to face his new companion directly, frowning as he does so. “She is a victim of circumstance; trapped in a situation in which she has little agency and must do what she can within the parameters allowed by her sex, and-“ he pauses, realizing he’d raised his voice just a touch too high in his excitement, and they are drawing looks from others in the room. Red-faced, Ezra swallows, and looks away. “Yes. Well.” 

“Looks like I touched upon a sore spot,” Beatrice says with clear amusement, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on Ezra’s knee. “If it’s any consolation, I’m stubborn and argumentative like my namesake.” 

The tension and nervousness that had built itself up inside Ezra’s chest over the course of the last several minutes… tumbles down like a house of cards. “I would say Beatrice is more… passionate.” 

The real Beatrice smirks. “Why thank you. And despite being in the _ gloomiest _ play ever, Ophelia certainly has some admirable qualities.” Beatrice plucks the empty champagne glass from Ezra, sets it on a nearby table, and stands. He stretches out his free hand. “Qualities I’d love to discover more of. What’s say I buy you a drink?” 

Ezra looks at that hand for a moment; considers. He’d come here after a great deal of debate and overthinking for this very thing. He’d wanted to meet other gentlemen like himself; hoped to meet someone who he might want to get to know _ more. _It’s still terrifying, being here, knowing that at any moment this could all come crashing down as he’s revealed and tried for crimes he hasn’t even committed.

_ Yet. _

He glances up at the obscured eyes of Beatrice and feels his heart hammer in his chest decidedly. Crime or not, following this man feels _ right _; feels like the exact thing he came here searching for, and so he takes Beatrice’s hand with a steadiness that surprises himself, and stands. 

“I’d love a drink,” he says with a nervous smile, then adds with only a brief stammer, “A- and… moreso… the company that comes with it.”

Beatrice grins and leads them to the bar, where he orders them both a drink. 

One drink becomes two, which doubles to four, and just as many hours pass in the corner of a room in the White Rabbit, where Ophelia and Beatrice talk and laugh and flirt with a freedom that can only be found in such a place. It’s utterly refreshing, Ezra thinks, as he watches Beatrice’s veiled face scowl as he laments once more over how utterly distasteful he finds Shakespeare’s tragedies. In between the words, Ezra thinks he spots a speck of amber in Beatrice’s eyes, and it thoroughly distracts him as his companion rips apart another of Ezra’s favorite plays.

After a few minutes, Beatrice notices his companion’s lack of engagement and pauses. “You alright?” 

Ezra blinks, shaking his head a little to clear his thoughts, then immediately regrets the motion as the room spins a little. “Hmm? Oh! Yes. You’re entirely misinformed on the matter, I fear, but I suppose the beauty of literature is that is can be open to a variety of interpretations.” 

“Misinformed-?! Listen now! What is so appealing about two children taking their lives or everyone dying senselessly?”

“It’s _ tragedy,” _ Ezra says simply, as if that were all the explanation necessary. 

“That’s my point!” Beatrice exclaims, sloshing his drink a little in his enthusiasm. “The world out there,” he points past them to the doors leading toward the foyer and subsequently the outside world, “Is already full of tragedy. War and sickness and death and-and- and _ look around _! We’re all lumped in this gilded cage because we had the misfortune of preferring members of our own sex! I’ve experienced enough tragedy to not want to experience it when I go to the theatre!” 

Ezra sighs and places his glass on the table next to him. He turns and gently lays a gloved hand upon his companion’s. It’s strange how easy it is, to be openly affectionate with someone. “My apologies, my dear. Your thoughts are perfectly valid. I suppose I simply find comfort in reading of the trials of others. To know I am not alone for being…” he uses his other hand to gesture to himself, “_ What _I am.” 

“And what are you?” 

Ezra sighs and looks away. “An embarrassment to my family, for a start.” 

He feels something against his cheek, leather warmed by the heat of a hand. That hand turns Ezra’s head until he’s looking at a veiled face, and even through the netting, he can see sincerity on the face of his companion. 

“You’re not an embarrassment,” he says softly. 

Ezra huffs, feeling far too warm for comfort. Perhaps it’s the jacket. “You don’t know me.” 

“I’d like to.” 

Ezra blinks, and a small sound escapes his throat. Beatrice amends, “In here, of course. I want you to come back. I want us to sit here for far too long and monopolize each other’s time and argue over Shakespeare and- and maybe more… in time.” 

Normally such a thing would require a ridiculous amount of worrying and fretting and debating on Ezra’s part. He doesn’t like to commit to anything without first weighing all his options, but as he looks at Beatrice’s obscured face, as he feels the warmth of a man’s hand touching his cheek like a lover - _ oh that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!- _he finds there is only one option. 

“I’d like that very much.” 

* * *

Ezra returns to The White Rabbit the next week as promised, and after he settles, he begins looking around expectantly for a flash of red hair. He tries to hide his disappointment when a gentleman with green eyes and grey hair approaches him and begins to chat with him. 

Ezra tries to discreetly hold back his cough as the man blows cigar smoke in his face and brags about his great contributions to keeping the White Rabbit secret and successful. Nodding with feigned appreciation, Ezra glances around every few seconds in the hopes of excusing himself and finding his way to more pleasant company. 

Blessedly, after a couple minutes, Ezra feels a warm hand on his lower back, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the veil and mask of Beatrice. 

“Ah, there you are, Ophelia! Thank you for keeping my companion entertained in my absence,” Beatrice says to the other man with a smile that is anything but friendly. “But I’m here now, so we’ll be popping along.” 

The man glowers for a long moment before shrugging and taking an indignant puff of his cigar. “Of course, _ Beatrice. _ Good day, Ophelia. _ ” _

The man leaves and Ezra sighs, feeling a strange sort of relief at being rescued from the obnoxious man. “Thank you.” 

“No thanks necessary,” Beatrice says as he leans heavily on his embellished cane. “Sorry I’m late.” 

“It’s no problem,” Ezra says softly, eyes searching through the netting and mask to try and get a better look at his companion’s eyes. In the dimly lit room it's hard to see, but once more he thinks he spots a shimmer of gold in those eyes, and it makes his heart do a funny dance in his chest. “Shall we?” He gestures you the bar, “My treat this time.”

They retire to the corner they’d commandeered last time and sit together, drinking fine wine and talking. It’s lovely, Ezra thinks as he watches Beatrice, who has grown a little tipsy, gesture wildly as he prattles on about the frustrations of current politics. 

“It’s all _ rubbish _,” he grumbles as he downs the rest of his wine. Around them gentlemen are engaging in a variety of amusements, from cards to dancing, to a couple who seem far drunker on each other than the brandy in their cups- all of it gone unnoticed by Beatrice and Ophelia, who are so closely wrapped up in each other nothing short of the building collapsing might avert their attention. 

“Oh, I agree, my dear,” Ezra says softly, amused by his companion’s frustration, “It is all rather unjust, if one takes a moment to step away from one’s privilege to dwell upon the matter.” 

“And it’s not just unjust, but _ corrupt _,” Beatrice hisses. “You’ve got-“ he hiccups, “You’ve got a small group of gents who nabbed some power and then work to keep everyone else crushed under the weight of their own insignificance! And for what? We all end up in holes in the ground when it’s all done. Even that bastard, King Edward the whatever’ll end up a pile of bones, same as you n’me!”

Around them men laugh and chatter and kiss and dance. Ezra hums thoughtfully as he stares into his glass. “How dreary,” he concedes, “And potentially treasonous,” he gives his companion a pointed look. 

Beatrice shrugs. “We are all men,” he quotes dramatically, “In our own nature’s frail, and capable of our flesh.”

“Few are angels,” Ezra finishes in agreement. 

“_ None _ are,” Beatrice remarks plainly, before his expression softens, “Save you.” 

The flush that blooms across Ezra’s cheeks are blessedly covered by the black mask. “I’m not an angel,” he remarks softly, “And I’m not much of a holy man either. Not like my family.” 

“Well you’re in good company here, then,” Beatrice remarks, gesturing around them before he glances back at Ophelia. “Does your family… know?”

Ezra starts. He hadn’t meant to mention his family again, and he feels himself panic for a moment. The thought of somehow giving himself away is daunting, overwhelming. He feels as if his vision is darkening, and his lungs seem to have lost the ability to expand- 

“Ophelia!” 

He feels a light tap against his cheek and he blinks, confused, before realizing he’s left Beatrice waiting and, from the look on his face, worried. 

“My apologies,” Ophelia murmurs, taking a large gulp of wine. “I don’t… I don’t like talking about my family. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.” He laughs nervously. “It was a slip. Won’t happen again.” 

Beatrice studies him for a long moment, still and searching. “You know you don’t have to hide from me,” he says at length. “Obviously we won’t talk about it if you don’t want to, but you shouldn’t feel like you _ can’t. _That’s not the point of this.” 

Unable to help himself, Ezra lets out a small sound that should have been a laugh, but is too bitter to be classified as such. “That’s just it,” he says, “I _ can’t. _ I am risking a great deal to be here at all. I… I can’t say anything that might… give myself away. No one here may care, but if somehow my family were to find out… and I’m certain they _ will… _” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t bear thinking of, how they’ll react.”

“That’s not fair to you, though,” Beatrice says softly, scooting closer to Ophelia and rests his gloved hand on Ophelia’s knee. 

“Life isn’t fair,” Ezra says in a clipped tone that sounds too much like his brother speaking through him. He winces at that thought and shakes his head. “I don’t want to give this up,” he says after a moment, his hand hesitantly coming to rest over Beatrice’s, “But if we are going to… do this… I need your word that you won’t ask me to reveal personal information, just as I won’t ask you anything that might… out you. No names; no… nothing that could guide us to the other out there,” he points toward the doors, “If only for my own peace of mind… please?” 

He wishes he could see Beatrice’s eyes; the eyes are the window to the soul, as the saying goes, but more importantly, they are often a good indicator at telling what a person is thinking. And desperately, Ezra wishes to know what Beatrice thinks. He knows it’s not fair, he knows it’s not what he wants, but he _ has _ to have this certainty, that should anything happen- and there _ is _ precedent for it- he can’t be revealed, nor can he reveal anyone else. 

Eventually, Beatrice sighs. “Nothing too personal,” he agrees reluctantly, “Nothing that might give us away.” 

“Thank you, my dear,” Ezra sighs, relieved. “I am most grateful. 

Beatrice smiles, but it’s half-hearted and fleeting. Ezra tries not to think about how much that sad smile hurts him. 

“Do…” he stops, swallows. Trying to get back to the normal, light-hearted conversation after that feels like climbing a mountain coated in mud, but he presses on anyway. “What other books do you enjoy reading?” 

“Oh,” Beatrice scoffs, removing his hand from Ezra’s knee to wave his hand dismissively, “I don’t read.” 

Ezra blinks, stunned. “What? But-“ 

“I _ can _read,” he clarifies, “And I read all the classics when I was growing up: had the best education money can buy.” It’s not too personal to admit that, Ezra thinks. Most of the men in here can probably make the same declaration. “Decided most of them are rubbish.” 

“My dear fellow,” Ezra gasps, alarmed, “I’m not sure I know what to say!” 

“I take it you’re fond of literature?” 

“Very much so!” He proclaims, “In fact, I am in the process of- “ he stops, realizing he’d been moments away from breaking his own rule and telling Beatrice about his plans for the bookshop and lending library. He snaps his mouth shut. He takes a moment, then amends, “Of rereading the works of Miss Jane Austen. She really is quite talented.” 

“Never read her,” Beatrice shrugs, but there’s an amused smirk back on his face. “Tell me about your favorite?” 

Beaming, Ezra begins telling Beatrice about the story of _ Pride & Prejudice_. 

Halfway through the story, Beatrice tugs off his hat and drops it on the table before them. The veil goes with it, but before Ezra can get a good look at his eyes, Beatrice is moving again, placing his wine glass down before plucking Ezra’s from plump fingers. Before he can protest, Beatrice shifts on the sofa and pushes Ezra back to lean against the arm so that he’s half reclined back on the seat. Without a word, the redhead curls up against his side, head resting on Ezra’s shoulder and stomach pressed to Ezra’s side. It’s a bit cramped, and heat swelters through Ezra’s veins like an ember brought to life. 

“Relax, Ophelia,” Beatrice says softly, “We aren’t the most obscene ones here.” He points to the corner across from them where one man is enjoying fellating another from under a card table. “See?” 

“Oh my,” Ezra flushes once he realizes what is going on and looks away. It’s not so much that he finds the act lewd or repulsive; it’s that he rather _ enjoys _ the thought of such a thing being so freely accepted. He shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t even be here, and yet he _ is _ and he’s glad for it. 

“So,” Beatrice says, resting his hand on Ezra's stomach, idly picking at the chain of his pocket watch, “Do they find Lydia and Wickham?” 

Still rigid from the rather intimate embrace he’s found himself in, Ezra slowly begins recounting the rest of the story. As he does he grows more comfortable, and by the end, he’s wrapped one arm around Beatrice’s shoulders and allowed the other to rest over where his hand is flat against Ezra’s stomach. 

“That’s quite a story,” Beatrice says at the end. He shifts, hips rolling against Ezra’s thigh and the movement does something deep down in Ezra’s heart, in the secret place he can’t quite allow himself to acknowledge. “Tell me another one?” 

Ezra obliges, retelling the story of a young woman named _ Emma, _ though he finds he can hardly focus once Beatrice begins lazily trailing his fingers over Ezra’s stomach, drawing abstract patterns over the material of his vest. He can scarcely feel it through his several layers, but it’s more the knowledge of it happening that tantalizes than anything. 

Perhaps some day there won’t be as many layers between them. 

He blinks; gulps. He’s known this man a number of _ hours_. This is only their second meeting. And yet everything about him feels _ right. _Ezra has never found such easy comfort or companionship with someone and he wonders if it is merely the novelty of such a thing that has his heart racing and his breath catching in his throat as if a dream-catcher had been placed there. 

He manages to finish the story, though he’s certain he mixed up some of the details in his distraction. Not that Beatrice will know. Once he finishes, he suspects Beatrice might get up; might seek out more wine or other company, or perhaps even leave. It _ is _ getting late _ . _But he doesn’t do any of those things. He stays right where he is, and Ezra isn’t inclined to move him. Nothing is said for some time, and Ezra glances down to see through the mask that Beatrice’s eyes are closed, clearly dozing but not outright asleep. It warms Ezra’s heart to know he’s trusted enough to watch over Beatrice here, and so moved by that trust, he bends his head down to press a chaste kiss to the top of his companion’s head. 

The redhead hums against him contentedly, squeezing him in response. 

Their repose is eventually disrupted by the arrival of another gentleman. He enters with an air that demands respect, and several gentlemen flock to the newcomer, talking, laughing, and one taking the man’s cheeks in his hands and kissing him lasciviously. 

Beatrice shifts, lifting his head and scowling at the ruckus. Ezra is watching the scene play out with curiosity, and when he turns his head to ask, he finds Beatrice’s lips are close enough to brush against his ear as he speaks. 

“That,” he whispers, causing a shiver to burst through Ezra in the most delicious way, “Is _ Victoria. _ Rumor has it that he’s _ upper-upper class_, if you know what I mean.” 

Ezra stares, squinting as he tries to place the gentleman. It’s one of the benefits and disadvantages of the White Rabbit. Men are heavily encouraged to wear masks to obscure their identity. It’s up to the individual how much they reveal to their partner or partners, but unless one occupies a private room, the masks are generally meant to stay on. That isn’t to say that all guests abide by said rule; in fact there are several men present who are _ not _ wearing their masks. 

But the person Beatrice alluded to _ is, _and so Ezra can not see enough of the man to properly identify him. He has his suspicions, and he suspects Beatrice does as well. 

“Well, if that is true, then I suppose we can at least take comfort in knowing that in here, we are all, to a degree, equal.” 

“If only that were true.” 

They go silent for a long moment before Ezra wiggles a little. “You can’t honestly be comfortable laying on me like this.”

He feels the arm draped over his stomach press, hard enough to indicate Beatrice’s desire for Ezra to stay where he is, but light enough that if Ezra wishes to move he can. It’s such a delightful luxury, to have the option to stay wrapped up with another man like this. Despite his protest, Ezra has no real inclination to move unless asked. 

“You’re cozy. And _ warm_.” Beatrice shifts closer for emphasis. 

“Well,” Ezra says, putting on a bit of a show of considering getting up, “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any.” 

“Best reason,” Beatrice agrees, dragging Ezra’s arm around so the redhead is wrapped in the blond’s embrace. “Could stay here forever.” 

That thought appeals to Ezra far more than it should. He shoves the notion away, and tries to enjoy the closeness and warmth of being with Beatrice.

* * *

Despite his better judgement, Ezra goes back, week after week. Each time the ease in which he slips from Ezra Fell to _ Ophelia _ grows, and soon it’s like almost like wrapping up in a favorite nightgown on a cold winter night: comforting, warm, and much preferred to the costume he must wear out in the world. 

Not that Ezra _ dislikes _ the fashion of the time. On the contrary, he is quite fond of the ruffles and suits and top hats and all the trimmings that make up a proper gentleman. His own clothing may be a couple years behind the current, _ modern _ style, but he prefers to use his modest income to procure rare books instead of a sleek new woolen dinner jacket. 

Beatrice teases him about this, and a great many other things. They meet weekly, sequestered in their little corner with fine wine and bodies pressed close together, oblivious to the rest of the world both inside and outside the White Rabbit. They talk and laugh and flirt, and more often than not Beatrice manages to drag Ophelia close to him, sometimes even resting his head on the blond’s lap. It takes a few times, but eventually Ezra summons the courage to gently run his fingers through Beatrice’s fiery red hair while he softly reads aloud selections of his favorite poems. 

His cheeks particularly burn when he reads through an unyielding piece by an American poet, and he notices that Beatrice’s breath catches when Ezra recites some of the more intimate lines.

_ I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, _

_ How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, _

_ And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, _

_ And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet. (1) _

Flushing furiously, Ezra has to excuse himself after that, and retreats to the bar for something far stronger than wine. 

But despite moments where the poetry stirs something up in him that he isn’t quite ready to face, it’s surprisingly comfortable to have formed such an easy intimacy with a man whose name Ezra doesn’t actually know. But despite that, and despite not knowing a great many personal things - per their agreement, on Ezra’s request- they find they get along splendidly. Hints of their lives outside the White Rabbit still slip through the cracks formed from sheer adoration of one another. Ezra can’t help but share his love of books. He even confesses his desire to own and operate a lending library or bookstore; his desire to share knowledge with the public. He doesn’t reveal he’s already in the process of getting one started; that’s too much detail, but he can’t contain his passion for the concept, and even though Beatrice doesn’t read, he thinks the idea is fantastic. 

Eventually, because such a thing is inevitable, Beatrice explains how he received his injury. He keeps it vague, for Ophelia’s sake, but explains he’d been a naval officer. There’d been plans for a mutiny against the captain, and while Beatrice hadn’t been happy with some of the captain’s decisions, he hadn’t thought a mutiny was the right answer either. But the mutiny happened, and he’d been caught in the middle. Shot, in the hip, in the middle of the scuffle. The injury didn’t get properly tended to for some time, and Beatrice explains the sensation of scorching, fiery pain as he’d suffered and waited for help. By the time someone found him and the injury could be tended to, the lasting damage had taken hold. 

“I loved the sea,” Beatrice confesses as Ezra gently rubs Beatrice’s leg which is draped on his lap. “Felt like I was flying, in a way. All that open air and the taste of the sea air on your tongue. I loved it. Not much use on a ship with a bum leg, though. My days of flying are over.” 

“I’m sure someday you'll fly again,” Ezra says softly. He feels a hand rest on his, ceasing the absent caressing of his companion’s leg. 

“I feel like a lot of things are possible when I’m with you.” 

Ezra glances up to look at Beatrice's face. His eyes, as always, are obscured by that mask and veil combination. Ezra would give anything to remove that mask and learn if the glimmer of gold he thinks he sometimes sees in Beatrice’s eyes is real or just a trick of the light. 

“Sometimes I think you give me too much credit,” Ezra whispers. 

The hand on his squeezes gently. “Sometimes I don’t think you give yourself enough, angel.” 

”I don’t know why you insist on calling me that.” 

“It’s an _endearment_,” Beatrice remarks playfully exasperated, “For _ my dear _...man…” 

Ezra laughs at the horribly attempted joke. “Oh, that was _ awful.” _

“And yet you’re laughing.” 

Ezra allows the laugh to fizzle out, then he looks down at where their hands are resting on Beatrice’s leg. “I find I do that a good deal more when I’m with you.” 

* * *

Ezra doesn’t spend all his time commandeered by Beatrice when at The White Rabbit, which he finds quite unfortunate. Other gentlemen seem intrigued by the shy and stuttering newest member of the club, and Ophelia often finds himself greeted by a gentleman or two, with offers of drinks and a promise for more than just simple conversation. 

Ezra always engages them politely, but is quick to insist he is here for Beatrice, and as soon as it is not considered rude, he bows out of attempted seductions to find his companion who is often watching from their corner with a mix of annoyance and amusement.

It’s clear that some gentlemen come to the White Rabbit to be _ together, _while others are open to anyone who might be inclined for a similar sort of amusement. Just as many are eager for conversation and companionship. It becomes understood quickly that Ophelia and Beatrice fall into the first category, and after a couple months certain attempts to gain Ophelia’s interest outside pleasant conversation are all but abandoned. General conversation is welcome, and on days when he arrives before Beatrice, Ophelia has a grand time conversing with others, finding himself much more at ease than the first time he’d entered this room. He has fun, but is never quite as full of contentment and joy as when he is with Beatrice. 

One particular evening finds Ophelia attempting to learn the gavotte, which is a source of hilarity for everyone else watching. It’s a fun dance, harmless and silly and leaves everyone merry and full of laughter. By the time Ophelia concedes that he has no skill for the dance and retreats to the corner, he’s red-faced and sweaty, but he is practically radiating joy. 

He finds Beatrice at the bar, watching him with a look that is half smirk, half wince. He takes the seat that has clearly been saved for him and requests something to drink from the bartender. Beatrice sticks out a gloved hand and fans it in front of his face, doing little to actually cool Ophelia off, but the gesture is appreciated nonetheless. 

“Oh dear, I might have made a bit of a fool of myself,” he laughs as he thanks the bartender and downs half the glass. 

“You were perfect,” Beatrice says adoringly. 

“Well, we both know that is decidedly not true, but I appreciate the attempt at flattery.” 

“And what will such flattery get me, hmm?” Beatrice asks as he stands, collects his cane and motions for Ophelia to follow him to their spot in the corner. He takes a moment to appreciate the distinctive swagger in Beatrice’s hips- created by the injury but exaggerated to give off an air of smooth seduction and grace. 

He’s beautiful. Unable to help himself, Ezra follows, Beatrice’s question on his mind: what _ will _ such flattery get him? 

Ezra knows it’s a joke. It’s Beatrice fishing for a compliment or teasing, or something equally light. And while Ezra does like to indulge his companion, he finds himself even more merry than normal. He’s already been made a fool of once, and gladly so. Surely another brash act of foolishness wouldn’t be too much for one evening. 

They reach their corner and Beatrice turns, perhaps to further tease Ophelia. Before he can speak however, Ezra steps forward, rests his free hand in Beatrice’s shoulder and presses a kiss to the other man’s lips. 

A spark of flame ignites in the space between them, and Ezra steps back, wide eyed and shocked at such a brazen act. Nevermind that he can hear the distant moans of two gentlemen engaging in a much more sensual act than what he’s just done, he feels simply scandalous, wide-eyed and slack jawed. 

Partially because of just how _ good _it had felt to kiss another man. 

_ No, not another man. _ This _ man. _

Ezra blinks, and an apology forms on his lips, but before he can give the words life, they’re swallowed down by the softest brush of a kiss. It’s chaste, all things considered. No more than the kind of gentle exchange one might expect to partake in while mingling in the London high society. And yet somehow it’s _ everything. _

“_ Oh…” _ he breathes as Beatrice leans back, just enough to be able to look at each other. There’s something loud and overwhelming between them that demands to be said, but the look they share seems to say it enough for the moment. This is not the place for such a thing, despite the fact that it _ is. _

“Oh, my dearest one…” 

“_Angel.” _

It’s a plea, a sincere request for more, and Ezra knows in this moment he can deny his Beatrice nothing. Ignoring the cheers and shouts from the men around them, Ezra leans forward with a hesitancy that speaks only of his inexperience, and kisses Beatrice again. 

It’s _ breathtaking _, how good it feels to kiss this man. Like some part of Ezra has been dead, and now he’s been brought to life, like Lazarus rising from his grave. His heart catches in his chest, stumbling over itself as he hears the sound of a cane hitting the ground; feels Beatrice’s gloved hands rise to cup his cheeks. It’s not how he imagined his first kiss to be (and since meeting Beatrice he’s imagined it quite frequently) but it’s beyond perfect. It doesn’t matter that they aren’t alone. It doesn’t matter that he’s hot and a little sweaty. It doesn’t matter that they can never have more than this. For the moment, this is enough.

He wraps an arm around Beatrice’s waist, pulling him closer, and loses himself to utter bliss of Beatrice’s lips against his. 

* * *

It’s only a matter of time before things go pear-shaped, Ezra can’t help but worry. Things like this aren’t meant to last, and he knows that sooner or later he’ll be found out- they’ll _ all _be found out- and any sort of illicit romance he has going on will be ripped from him without so much as a care as to the damage it will do to his heart. 

But even with that risk, even with that cloud hanging over his head, Ezra returns to The White Rabbit; to Beatrice. How can he resist, when Beatrice is so _ damned tempting _? He starves for their conversation and arguments; he wants to feel drunk on wine-splashed lips. He wants that impossibly warm hand wrapped around his shoulders or his waist or brushing his thigh as they sit and gossip like ladies at a ball. 

He knows their time is limited; he feels sick with the certainty of it. It’s the only certain thing about their relationship: that it can’t last. Once or twice Ezra entertains the thought of ending it, of telling Beatrice that they can’t continue to fraternize like this, and be on his way. The thought is so painful he banishes it like a bad dream and tries to think of other things. 

Sometimes, he manages to gasp out a half-hearted _ we can’t! _ while being thoroughly seduced by hot, biting kisses that are exchanged in a neighboring room that still has several other patrons, but they’re all too busy engaging in the same sort of delights to notice Ophelia and Beatrice. It’s on the tip of Ezra’s tongue to ask Beatrice to stop, but then he does that thing with _ his _ tongue on Ezra’s pulse point- his cravat has been tugged loose and hangs limp around his neck- and even Ezra has to concede that he doesn’t really want to stop _ . _

They _ should. _They don’t. 

In the days between trips to the White Rabbit, Ezra is eaten up with guilt. He doesn’t regret his choices; doesn’t regret Beatrice. But he regrets that he can’t introduce this Beatrice to his family. He can’t slip a ring onto this Beatrice’s finger and have the whole of London celebrate their union. He can’t walk arm in arm with this Beatrice like normal couples do, and it _ kills _ him to know that this thing they have between them is doomed to linger in the shadows. 

He regrets falling for the one person he’ll never be allowed to have. 

His family would be _ ashamed, _ if they knew _ . _He would be cut off; and while a small, rebellious part of him doesn’t think he’d mind (this part he blames entirely on Beatrice), the larger, more rational part reminds the rest of him that it is his family’s money and influence that allows him to open a bookshop in the first place. He’s not a very good businessman, he’s starting to realize as he works to bring the shop closer to it’s grand opening. Being cut off from his inheritance would leave him without the safety net of financial security that he needs to enjoy his life of relative leisure. It’s what allows him to go to the White Rabbit; to have Beatrice. He can’t have those things on a paltry businessman’s sum. 

And since they’d agreed, for his own sake, not to divulge any information that is too specific and revealing, Ezra has no comfort in knowing if he and Beatrice could live comfortably on his salary either.

Do dishonored naval officers even have salaries, he wonders. 

Ezra isn’t afraid of being poor (though he does prefer the comfort of wealth) but he fears being cast out, disgraced and rejected by everyone, merely for the sin of love. 

He buries his head in his hands, distraught, and allows himself to have a nice, brief, pity party. Then he changes into his black suit that allows him to blend in with the rest of the gentlemen who walk about, and slips out of the shop. 

When he enters the White Rabbit, he dons his mask, signs in, and then looks for Beatrice. He spots him near the bar, chatting with a gentleman who has forgone his mask. Ezra waits patiently nearby, not wanting to disturb them, but as soon as Beatrice spots him, he excuses himself and approaches Ophelia, that signature swaggering limp carrying him with a distinct and unlikely grace. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Ezra blinks. “What sort of greeting is that?” 

Beatrice doesn’t smile, doesn’t tease. Instead he scowls. “You don’t come here on Wednesday’s. Something’s wrong.” 

_ How_ , Ezra wonders, _ how does he know me so well? _

“Come on,” Beatrice says, tugging Ophelia behind him as he moves toward their corner. He makes a motion at the bartender who nods once, and then they settle themselves on the cushions, Beatrice pulling Ophelia into his arms. “What’s going on?” 

Ezra shakes his head. “I feel positively wretched,” he murmurs, defeated. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” he adds, nodding politely as they’re served two glasses of wine. He turns back to look at Beatrice. “I just… want to be with you, for a bit. Assuming you aren’t otherwise engaged.” 

“Not engaged,” Beatrice says, closing the distance between them. “You’ve got me for as long as you want me.” 

_ I want you always, _ Ezra thinks bitterly as he accepts the kiss from Beatrice’s lips. _ But that’s the problem. I can’t have you. Not in the way I want you. _

They kiss until they’re almost drunk from it. The wine certainly helps matters, but it’s Beatrice’s lips that have dulled Ezra’s senses and made the pain in his heart shrink like a dying tumor. 

He’s content, in this moment. He’s warm and dizzy, wine and desire coursing through his veins, leaving him thirsty for more. The rest of the world has dulled to a barely noticeable haze in the distance, and all he can see, all he can feel, all he can taste is Beatrice, and it’s hard to be despondent when being in his arms feels so _ good. _

“Oh, Beatrice,” Ezra breathes as his companion presses teasing kisses down his jaw. Against him, he feels Beatrice tense, the kisses faltering for a moment. Worried, Ezra pulls back slightly, wishing for the thousandth time he could see Beatrice’s eyes unobscured. “Are you alright?” He asks, worried. 

Beatrice’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and it momentarily distracts Ezra before he looks back up, searching Beatrice’s face for a hint of… something. 

Beatrice is silent for a moment, then smiles softly, though it feels a little insincere, a little strained. “Fine, my angel,” he says softly, then he kisses Ophelia again, hard and consuming, and doesn’t relent until they’re both desperately gasping for air. 

It’s late when Ezra leaves. Or, depending on who one asks, early. He enters the back entrance of the bookshop to avoid any prying eyes that might be searching for illicit behavior, and stumbles upstairs where he tosses and turns the remainder of the night, wishing to sleep but unable to get his mind to settle long enough for sleep to take him. 

He ends up rising before the sun and does some work in his ledger. Once morning dawns and respectable people begin to make their way out of their homes and into the street, Ezra changes his attire into his trademark cream and steps out as well to run a few errands. He collects his post, frowning when he sees he’s been summoned to the family estate for dinner that evening. 

Sighing wearily, Ezra returns to the bookshop and resists the urge to run back to the White Rabbit, back to Beatrice, and beg his companion to kiss him until he forgets who he is and only Ophelia remains. 

* * *

Dinner is, as always, unpleasant. The food is excellent, but his family speaks softly with each other, dutifully ignoring him until someone eventually turns to him to inquire about the bookshop. He informs them of his progress, waits for Gabriel to make some condescending remark about how shameful it is that a member of the Fell family is doing something so belittling as opening a shop, then feigns a headache and leaves before he has a chance to enjoy dessert. 

Thursday comes and goes with little fuss, and then it is mercifully Friday once more. He accomplishes little during the day, checking his pocket watch every few minutes, wishing he could will the hours away. Finally, it’s close enough to evening, and he rushes upstairs to freshen up. 

He grabs an overcoat- the evenings are quickly growing too cool for comfort- and, as he’s done for over six months now, Ezra makes his way to The White Rabbit under cover of dusk.

He intends to don his mask, sign in under his other name, and make a beeline to the bar where he will order two glasses of wine and wait for Beatrice to arrive before he ever even considers taking a sip from his own glass. 

As badly as Ezra had needed Beatrice two days prior, he is _ desperate _ for his company and comfort now. 

Before Ezra can enter the drawing room, the usher places a hand on his shoulder and directs his gaze toward the stairs, where the more private rooms are reserved. In all his time at the White Rabbit, he and Beatrice have never utilized those rooms, preferring to instead stay in their little corner, where there is a very clear line they cannot cross. That line gets a little mused from time to time, but has remained intact. 

“I was asked to lead you upstairs,” the usher says softly, “Sister Beatrice wants to speak to you _ privately.” _

Ezra feels a flush come over him, and he’s about to stammer out something he’ll be embarrassed by later, when a commotion explodes from the main room. The door opens as one man slips out, fanning himself with a handkerchief and laughing merrily before he opens the door and runs back in. The door doesn’t close all the way and in the other room, Ezra can see there is a celebration going on- several men are dressed as midwives and nursemaids, and he can hear the sound of another man shouting in what is a poor replica of birthing screams. 

_ Ah. _

“Very good,” Ezra says to the usher. “Lead on.” 

He’s led upstairs to the last door on the left. The usher bows his head and leaves, and without even bothering to knock, Ezra opens the door and steps inside. 

Beatrice is sitting on the edge of the bed, sharply dressed as always. His cane is tossed carelessly behind him, and he’s drinking wine straight from the bottle. He flashes a solemn sort of smile as Ezra locks the door and then leans against it. 

“What on earth is going on down there?” 

Beatrice throws Ezra a look that says _ you know better than to question what goes on here. _It doesn’t answer his question, and yet it also does. 

“Let me amend: what is going on _ up here?” _

At that, Beatrice sighs. “Well, it’s certainly _ not _ whatever that ruckus is going on down there.” He pats the bed beside him. “I’m in no mood for their antics. I’m in no mood for anything… well, except _ you _. So come, let me tempt you to some wine and mediocre conversation.” 

“Temptation accomplished,” Ezra says as he steps forward and takes a seat next to Beatrice, pressing a kiss to his cheek even as he senses something is off- like returning home to find all the furniture has shifted three inches to the left. “Though you’re hardly _ mediocre _conversation.” 

“Who says I was referring to _ me?” _ Beatrice says, and though he’s smirking, it feels forced. 

Ezra tries to lighten the mood by gasping and snatching the bottle of wine from Beatrice. “I ought to take this and _ leave.” _

“Probably ought to. But you won’t.” 

“And you know me so well that you can say that for certain?” It’s meant to be a jest. It’s meant to tease and restore them back to normal. It’s meant to cause Beatrice to lean close and whisper something saucy in his ear that will leave him scandalized for all of two seconds before he laughs and the cycle repeats. Instead, it’s apparently the wrong thing to say, as Beatrice’s pretense of good mirth slips away like a handkerchief in a strong wind. 

“I’d like to,” he whispers as he leans closer, unsteadily. Ezra catches him with one arm. 

“Are you _ drunk?” _

He can feel the weight of the wine bottle in his left hand. It’s mostly empty. 

“No!” He says sharply, leaning back, “No m’not _ drunk_. _ M’tired _. And my leg is killing me and… and I’m so tired of only getting you for a few hours a week, angel.” 

Ezra doesn’t know where to start with that, so he settles for the easiest thing to argue: “I’m not an angel.” 

“You’re _ my _ angel. Bright and beautiful and the _ only _ good thing in this entire _ fucking _ world.” 

“Beatrice-“ Ezra begins softly. 

“That’s not my name,” Beatrice hisses softly. “God, angel, I want nothing more than to kiss you and hear you whisper _ my name. _ I want to be able to touch myself when I can’t be with you and have _ your name _ spill from my lips- not... M’so… _ so tired _ of living a half-life, when I could _ know you _ and for once feel whole.” 

“Beatrice-“ Ezra whispers. 

Beatrice growls. “Tha’s’not my name!” He says as he stands up, leg protesting so that he has to catch himself on the bed before he slowly rights himself with a strained hiss. “I’m-“ 

A hand is over his mouth before he can finish. “Please don’t,” Ezra begs, eyes wide behind his mask. “You agreed. Nothing too revealing.” 

Wordlessly, Beatrice takes the bottle of wine from Ezra and drinks deep from it. He staggers a bit, and Ezra instinctively catches him. The touch seems to be the wrong thing to do, for Beatrice’s shoulders shake in a sob, and he leans forward to press his forehead against Ezra’s shoulder. 

“Do you know what today is?” He murmurs. 

“I’m afraid I don’t.” 

Beatrice sniffles. “It’s my birthday,” he whispers, then whimpers and stands upright. “And I don’t know if that counts as _ too much. _ S’it too much? What _ is _ too much, at this point?! Can I know _ your _ birthday? I-“ he stops and laughs in a way that sounds like glass shattering. “M’so tired of you being this- this _ fantasy _ I only get to indulge in everyone so often. How can you stand this? I just- _ god _ I want to call you by your name so much I can’t stand it! I want to see you without this fucking mask!” 

Ezra’s hand instantly flies to the mask as if Beatrice’s words might magically make it disappear. Beatrice notices and laughs bitterly. “I want to take you out for dinner! Somewhere nice. I want to show you my family home, and I want to walk in the park with you and- and _ court you. _ God! I want _ you _-“ 

“Beatrice, _ stop!” _

The name is like a slap in the face, and he goes silent, looking at Ophelia through the barrier of netting and silk and tears. 

They stand silently for a long moment, before Ezra begins, quietly, gently. “We can’t, my dearest one. It’s not safe. But… the White Rabbit is safe. Ophelia is _ safe. _ Beatrice is _ safe _ . I can’t- I can’t have you out there-“ he gestures to the door- “I don’t want to have a half-life either but it’s better than not having one at all. Please don’t… please don’t begrudge me this. Don’t ask me for more than what I can give. I am so very fond of you, I _ am _ , but it _ has _to stay here.” 

“Why?” Beatrice replies, desperation making his voice tremble. “Why’s it have to? Why does everyone else get whatever they want but we’re stuck renting filthy rooms in a mollyhouse just so we can-“ he breaks off, stepping away and hugging his arms around himself. “I _ want you _ ,” he sighs, “But not-“ he gestures at the room they’re in, “Not jus’ _ here.” _

“I want you too,” Ezra agrees softly, pleadingly, “But what we want and what we can have are two separate things. I _ want _to have you as you want me. But I can only have Beatrice. You can only have Ophelia. It’s… it’s safer that way.” 

“I don’t care about safe,” Beatrice cries, “I don’t _ care _! I would rather face whatever they’re willing to throw at me knowing I loved you fully than to live the rest of my life without having ever had you!”

“And I would rather us be safe!” Ezra snaps back hotly, slamming his palm on the table nearest him. “Blast it all, Beatrice, I want you too, but we have to be _ content _ with what we have!” 

“No we don’t!” He shouts back. “We can ‘ave more! We can take it. We can be _ together! _ We can- we can… _ run away _! Together!”

“We can’t and you know it.” 

“I don’t know anythin’.” 

Ezra sniffs, “As you’re so clearly demonstrating. We cannot just neglect our duties, my dear. This is only a fraction of who we are-“ 

“No- this is _ all _ of who I am,” Beatrice interrupts, “You might be able to come here and have fun and go on your merry way pretending to be what _ they _ want you to be, but I can’t. I’m _ here _ . I’m here because all I want in this life is to be _ yours! _ Your lover, your husband, _ yours! Yours- _ not… not Ophelia’s. I want the man behind this _ fucking _ mask-“ 

His hands reach out and cup Ezra’s face with his free hand, but he makes no move to remove the mask. Instead he lets his head hang, and his whole body trembles from the sob that crashes through him like floodgates crumbling under the weight of a heavy storm. 

Ezra gently clasps Beatrice’s wrist and pulls it away. He pauses long enough to kiss the knuckles before lowering their clasped hands down between them. 

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Ezra breathes. “We can’t.” 

“M’in love with you,” Beatrice says helplessly in reply. 

“You don’t know me,” Ezra remarks plainly, but not without emotion. 

“You won’t let me,” Beatrice responds. 

“I can’t. I… I’m too afraid.”

“We’d be careful.” 

“This is already a great risk, my dearest one. I am not ready to risk more than this.” 

A long silence fills the space between them, and even though they are still so close, the gap between them has never felt wider. 

Eventually Beatrice releases Ophelia’s hand. “I’m leaving.” 

Ezra gasps. “No, darling, please-“ 

Beatrice holds up a hand. “I mean in general. Winter is right upon us, and it causes my injury a great deal of pain. My family estate is in the south-“ he pauses, chuckles darkly, “Wonder if _ that’s _ too much information? Anyway. I’m gone for the winter- s’wot I do. I was going to ask you to come with me. I’ve inherited a lovely library I’ll never properly appreciate. Thought you might want some books for your shop.” 

“You know I can’t,” it breaks Ezra’s heart to say. 

“Can’t or won’t?” 

Ezra scowls. “That isn’t fair.” 

Beatrice sighs, unable to look at Ophelia. “Nothing about this is fair.”

“My dearest, please understand. I have a life outside this place. I can’t just pack up and run away on a clandestine affair for the whole of winter, no matter how much-“ he stops himself there. Refuses to finish the thought. It can’t happen, so why waste words on silly wishes? 

Hurt, Beatrice meets his gaze sharply. “S’that all I am? A clan- clandes- a _ fucking _ affair? Something to enjoy in the dark corners of unsavory places and then left to rot until you’re ready to come play again?” 

“You are drunk, and in pain, and are taking it out on me. I do not appreciate it, but I will not rise to your bait.”

The tension between them, which has been stretched taut for so long the edges have frayed- finally snaps. Beatrice sags, and it’s almost as if he’s waking from a dream, and all the fight in him is lost. He looks at Ophelia for a long moment, then nods. “You’re right. M’sorry. I should go.” 

He staggers to the bed and grabs his cane, then moves around Ophelia toward the door. 

Ezra turns to look at him. “May- shall I kiss you before you go?” 

Beatrice stops, but doesn’t turn. “Better not,” he says softly, “Might not be able to leave after.” 

“Would it truly be so bad… to stay?” 

Beatrice reaches out and unlocks the door. “M’in _ pain._ You’ve no idea how much.” 

Ezra doesn’t know if he means his leg, or something else. He can’t bring himself to ask. 

When nothing more is said, when no efforts are made to stop him, Beatrice opens the door. “See you in the Spring, angel.” The door closes behind him, and Ezra sinks to the grimy floor, head buried in his hands as his heart breaks so violently it rips a wailing sob from his core. 

He stays there for some time, lamenting everything that brought him to this moment. He hates himself, hates the world, hates Beatrice for putting him in such a position. It’s not fair, and he wasn’t fair in turn, and now they’re both miserable. 

After a brief period of mourning, Ezra takes great pains to collect himself. On shaking legs he rises, and exits the room. As he leaves The White Rabbit that evening, an hour after breaking his and Beatrice's hearts, he vows he will never return. 

He never should have come in the first place. 

* * *

The winter is exceptionally brutal, and it’s not just because of the cold and snow. It’s _ lonely _, which shouldn’t matter because every winter has been lonely for Ezra Fell, but this particular season he feels the bitter chill more than normal. He likens it to spending a holiday in the Spanish sun, warm and lazy and content, only to wake up one morning to a blizzard- sudden and overwhelming. 

He misses Beatrice. No- he misses… 

He misses a man whose name he doesn’t even actually know. 

Try as he might to stay busy, he finds his mind wondering to his missing companion, and to the White Rabbit. He’d enjoyed the company there, though Beatrice in particular had been the driving force to cause him to return. The company there is nothing like the company he is forced to keep now. Family dinners are even more miserable, now he doesn’t even have the anticipation of seeing Beatrice again. 

His work keeps him busy, and he is able to open his humble little shop right after the new year. It’s a hollow victory, one he wishes he could share with Beatrice, but he’s not here so Ezra pops open a bottle of champagne alone and wonders what it might be like to have his companion with him to celebrate. 

That loneliness follows him to bed at night, where he spends hours fantasizing about the most wholesome things: knowing his companion’s name, seeing him walking into the bookshop offering tickets to a play. Seeing the beauty of those eyes he’s _ so certain _ are gold. Sitting together and swapping stories about horrible family members and laughing over how pompous Ezra’s brother Gabriel is. He imagines them walking together in St. James’ Park on a warm sunny day. When Beatrice’s leg grows sore they stop and feed the ducks and stand perhaps a little closer together than is proper. 

He cries himself to sleep wishing for the simplest of intimacies, and cursing the world for the injustice of keeping two who love so deeply and purely apart. He curses himself for being so consumed by fear. 

By mid-January, Ezra can’t take the loneliness anymore, and before he can truly allow himself to think of what he’s doing, he’s knocking three times, then once, then twice on a nondescript green door and stepping side with a shiver. 

The usher greets him with that same placid smile as always while Ezra sheds his heavy coat, dons a mask, and signs in. 

“Sister Ophelia,” the usher says simply, “It’s been a while.” 

“Yes,” Ezra agrees, “I’m afraid I rather lost my way.” 

“Well, better late than never,” the young man says before brandishing an envelope. “This came for you three weeks ago.”

Curiously, Ezra takes the proffered envelope, and opens it right there. His breath catches when he sees the first line- 

_ My dearest angel- _

He looks up, shaken and teary-eyed. “May I-“ 

The usher holds up a key. “Last door on the left.” 

Ezra barely manages to blurt out a thank you before he snatches the key and runs in a most undignified manner up the steps and to the reserved room. He rushes inside, tries not to think of the last time he was here, and locks the door before unfolding the letter and reading. 

_ My dearest angel- _

_ I hope this letter finds you well, or well enough after our last meeting. I myself have not been well. Physically I am fine; the weather is milder here than in London, which does wonders for my health. But my heart… oh angel, my heart has never been in more tatters than it is now. _

_ Is yours? Do you miss me half as much as I miss you? _

_ I must, before anything else is said, apologize for my behavior at our last meeting. I left thinking many unkind things about you- indeed I left thinking you to be terribly cruel- but time has sobered my temper and the sun here has chased away the ache in my bones- though nothing but the sight of you will warm that ache in my heart. Nevertheless, I am sober and clear-headed and not driven by my love for you in the writing of this letter. _

_ Let me amend. I am driven by my love for you in all things, but in this moment that passion has settled and is not quite so egregious as it was when we parted. _

_ I am sorry to have thrown so much at your feet, without thought of what it might mean for you. I will not apologize for my heart or its feelings, but merely the manner in which I presented them. Passion is no excuse for carelessness, and love is not meant to make such selfish demands. But I do love you. I may not know your name, or what you look like without a mask, but I know your heart, my angel, and I have seen your soul, and they are so bright and beautiful I find I sometimes cannot look at you for fear of being overwhelmed by your goodness. _

_ I wish I were there with you, more than I can possibly express. Do you wish the same? _

_If you do, if you still care for me despite my foolishness, I promise- I promise-_ _that upon my return I shall be content. I will be. I _must _be. If I thought myself wretched from the want of you before, I am starving now. I have never been a religious man, but I find my own season of Lent has come upon me and I am forced to unwillingly fast myself of you. _

_ The memory of the taste of your lips will have to be nourishment enough, for now. But until I can kiss you again, I shall remain _

_ Yours, _

<strike> _ A.J. Crowley _ </strike>

_ Beatrice _

Ezra reads and rereads the letter. He memorizes the words until they are etched into his heart, and he doesn’t need the paper, which is good, as it quickly becomes splashed with tears. 

He tries to make out the name under the scratch marks, but can only make out what he thinks is an _ A _ and an _ E. _

“Oh, my darling one…” he breathes, then tears the room apart looking for parchment and ink. He finds none, and so he rushes downstairs to the usher, who provides him some wordlessly and with a knowing look. 

Ezra thanks him and retreats upstairs, locking the door and sitting at the small desk that he is certain has never been used for its intended purpose, and writes his own reply to Beatrice. 

He assures Beatrice that he is well overall, but is desperately heartsick without him. He assures Beatrice of his own affection and desire to meet upon the others’ return. He expresses his own apology for being so dismissive, but does defend his reasons, and forgives just as he asks to be forgiven in turn. 

When he reaches the end, he vacillates on how to it. Worrying his lip, he starts and stops himself numerous times, debating on what to do. 

Finally, he makes a decision. 

_ I remain, ever yours, _

_ Ophelia _

_ (E. F.) _

It’s more than he thinks he should give, but it’s not nearly enough of what he wants to give. 

It’ll have to do. 

He stares at the letter for a long moment, feeling that even with his initials given that it is somehow incomplete. He racks his brain for something, then gasps as inspiration hits. At the bottom of the last page, he scribbles out a few stanzas of a poem he memorized long ago, when he first began this whole romance with Beatrice: 

_ No specious splendour of this stone _

_ Endears it to my memory ever; _

_ With lustre _ only once _ it shone, _

_ And blushes modest as the giver. _

_ Some, who can sneer at friendship’s ties, _

_ Have, for my weakness, oft reprov’d me; _

_ Yet still the simple gift I prize, _

_ For I am sure, the giver lov’d me. _

_ He offer’d it with downcast look, _

_ As _ fearful _ that I might refuse it; _

_ I told him, when the gift I took, _

_ My _ only fear _ should be, to lose it_. (2)

Satisfied, he seals the letter, and only then he realizes he has no idea _ how _ to get the letter to Beatrice. (He tries to think of him as _ AE _but it doesn’t seem right. And he doesn’t want to get attached to something that isn’t even correct.)

He returns downstairs, much calmer this time, and the usher wordlessly holds out his hand. “I’ll ensure it gets to him, Sister Ophelia,” he says softly, “I was instructed on where to send any missives that may come.” 

_ He hoped they would exchange letters. _

Ezra tries not to react too much to that information, and wordlessly hands the letter over to the usher, who bows his head and leaves, presumably to post it. 

Unsure of what to do, Ezra simply wanders into the ballroom where he’s greeted by Charlotte and Emily and Victoria, then he moves to the bar and orders a glass of wine. 

He feels more at peace than he has in weeks. 

By the time winter begins to make way for spring, they manage to send two more letters apiece between them. The second letter from Beatrice comes with its own set of initials - _ A.C. _which is enough to warm Ezra through the rest of winter. He prides himself on correctly guessing the first letter, and then proceeds to try and put a name to the masked face that might fit. 

He eventually has to give up lest he drive himself mad. 

Their letters are full of the same banter that they shared at the White Rabbit. Teasing and flirtatious, gently goading but always with a touch of affection wrapped around it. It soothes Ezra’s soul, makes the bitter winter winds feel like nothing against his skin. How can they sting, when his heart is so overflowing with the warmth of love? 

If his family notices- not that they ever notice him- they say nothing. He attends dinners like the devoted brother he is, but he finds himself more jovial than these parties typically make him. If asked- not that he is- he says he’d come across a particularly interesting book- a topic few desire to speak on for any length of time- and then he goes back to thinking of how lovely it might be to attend such a gathering, look up, and see a lovely pair of golden-flecked eyes staring back at him from across the way. 

_ If only… _

* * *

Spring is slow to arrive, but it eventually comes and with it, it brings all sorts of new worries for Ezra Fell. 

He knows Beatrice… A. C. is returning in the spring. He’d not given a specific date in the letter he’d sent to Ezra, but the implication had been that once the temperature began to warm, he would leave the country and return to London, presumably in time for the beginning of the social season. 

Ezra doesn’t know what to do. Does he go to the White Rabbit day after day and wait? They’d not discussed how they would find each other again upon A. C.’s return. Though, Ezra figures, if things had gone his way there would have been nothing to discuss because they would have been in the countryside together. 

That word gives him pause. _ Together. _ And just as quickly as his excitement had blossomed, it withers like a bud caught in a late spring frost. They can never really _ be _together, not properly. There can be stolen moments at the White Rabbit; there can be a potential display of friendship should they agree to meet properly in London society. But even then, it can only ever be hidden glances and stolen touches and whispers in the dark where they hope no one can see. 

Can that _ really _be enough for A. C.? Can it be enough for Ezra? And, perhaps more importantly, is it worth the risk they will both take, to allow this thing between them to grow? Or will the roots of what they have sewn together beat against the confinement they are imprisoned by until everything shatters and they’re cut by the pieces of a love that, to everyone else, is tainted and ugly? 

Ezra shakes his head. _ Nothing _ about A. C. is ugly. And nothing about _ them _is ugly… they’re beautiful, Ezra thinks. Together they have something truly remarkable. 

Remarkable, but not realistic. 

Ezra touches the letters he keeps in the inside pocket of his jacket, over his heart, and wonders what they should do. 

What _ can _ they do? 

Despite being open today he’s had few people venture inside. He takes that small mercy to lock the door and draw the curtains before moving upstairs to the small flat above the shoppe. He moves to the small sitting room where his personal collection of books resides: mostly first editions he’s haggled and bargained for. He also has a fine collection of other books, and he pulls a well-worn copy of _ Romeo and Juliet _from its space, settles on his couch, and flips to the end. 

Over the winter he’d taken to reading Shakespeare’s comedies, but a tragedy of doomed lovers seems more fitting for his mood today. 

He reads, slowly, as if searching for a hidden clue in the words that might shed light on what he should do about his own situation. Obviously he has no desire to stage a suicide, but short of that he has no idea what they might do in order to be together. 

Juliet plunges the dagger into her heart, and Ezra wipes away a tear before it can fall to the page. He’d always thought this play, while beautiful and tragic, was a bit overblown. But reading the end with a fresh perspective makes him appreciate the lengths the star-crossed lovers go to in order to be together. Truly, they’d been willing to sacrifice everything for their love. 

Ezra shuts the book. What is _ he _ willing to sacrifice to be with A. C.? What is he willing to endure, to risk, for the love of a man whose face he hasn’t even seen, whose name he still doesn’t know? 

Do those things even matter? 

Ezra knows the answer, but he can’t bring himself to admit it, even to himself. With a sigh, he shelves the book and retreats to his bedroom. He’s been told by his brother he has to attend the ball Baroness Tracy is hosting this evening, and he supposes he might as well get ready and summon up the emotional fortitude to endure another evening of inane chatter and attempts to avoid having to dance with any of the ladies who have an eye for his family’s money. 

* * *

It’s the first ball of the new season, and as such, everyone who's anyone is in attendance. Winter has kept at people in doors or sent them away to warmer pastures. Now that winter has slunk away, the who’s-who of society has emerged from social hibernation. 

Ezra enters the home, immediately overwhelmed by the garish decorations and the blinding white of a sea of young ladies in party dresses all clamoring together excitedly over finally being out again. Gentlemen in sharp suits drink and smoke and chatter about matters of importance, and it’s all so lovely and lonely. Ezra would give anything to be at the White Rabbit, curled up in a corner with A. C. and giggling over the gaiety around them. 

Instead he plucks a glass of champagne from a waiter, finds a corner, and prays he doesn’t run into his brother or sister. 

As it happens, he’s eventually drawn out of his corner by one of his few friends, Baroness Anne Tracy, wife of Sergeant Charles Shadwell. “You can’t just sit in the corner all evening and sulk, my dear,” she chides him, “Come. There’s a friend of mine arrived to London just yesterday and I think you might get along splendidly with him. He’s not much of a reader- though _ no one _ is as much a reader as you- but he seems interested in Shakespeare, and I told him, I said, ‘Well, we have a resident expert when it comes to Shakespeare, let me get him.’” 

She pulls Ezra over to where another man stands, and Ezra’s heart leaps when he sees a tall, thin man with red hair and a cane. 

“Here we are, Lt. Anthony Crowley,” she says happily, “Let me introduce you to my dear friend, Lord Ezra Fell.” 

The man named Crowley turns, and both he and Ezra freeze. The world seems to slow to a halt around them, as Ezra looks upon the face of the man he loves more than anything else in the world for the first time in months. 

His face is still obscured, but with small spectacles. The lenses are tinted a dark color that hides the eyes, but it isn’t his eyes that would have sparked recognition in Ezra. His nose, that sharp jawline, those soft lips, sharp smirk. It’s every inch his Beatrice, his A. C., his- 

“Lt. Crowley,” he says, throat feeling as if he had just swallowed a jar full of molasses. “A- a pleasure.” 

“Lord Fell,” Crowley says, voice equally thick and heavy. He holds out his hand. “The pleasure is all mine.” 

Ezra takes his hand, and the spark that shoots through the touch and into his chest is enough to make him nearly cry out. 

“As I said, Lt. Crowley, Lord Fell is simply _ brilliant. _ Opened his own bookshop and everything, just this year _ . _ Why I’d wager with his smarts and your good business sense, Lt. Crowley, I’m sure you two could outsmart half the so-called gentlemen here! Oh, Mr. Crowley, it’s _ so good _ to have you back in London.” 

A sharp tone shouts Anne’s name, and she looks behind her before huffing and turning back to the two men. “I am being summoned. Ezra, darling, make Lt. Crowley feel welcome, won’t you? I’ll be back as soon as I deal with the Sergeant.” 

With that she steps away, chiding her husband for interrupting her. 

When she is gone, Ezra looks at Crowley; realizes he’s still holding his hand. Reluctantly, he lets go. 

Crowley swallows and opens his mouth to speak. “I-“ 

“If you’re interested in discussing Shakespeare,” Ezra interrupts quickly, “Allow me to show you to the Baroness’s library. She is the only person in London whose collection can compete with my own.” 

“Lead the way,” Crowley says roughly, and despite the tinted spectacles, Ezra is positive that Crowley hasn’t taken his eyes off him the entire time. 

Nodding, he leads Crowley through the crowd and toward the private library belonging to the Baroness. He gestures for Crowley to enter, then follows him inside, shuts the door and locks it. 

It feels disturbingly like the last time they saw each other. 

Crowley, as Ezra keeps repeating to himself, turns around and tugs off the tinted glasses. 

Ezra’s suspicions are confirmed. His eyes are a honeyed amber; bright and beautiful and sparkling gold in the light of the fire dancing in the hearth. 

They stare at each other for a long while, neither seeming to know what to say. Eventually, Crowley swallows thickly and says in a soft, unsure voice, “I… didn’t know you would be here.” 

A small huff escapes Ezra. He looks away, unable to meet Crowley’s gaze for more than a moment at a time. “How could you have known?” 

Crowley shrugs, gloved hands wringing over the handle of his cane. “If I had, I wouldn’t have- I know you don’t want-“ 

“It’s alright,” Ezra cuts him off, finally forcing himself to look at his companion. “To be perfectly honest, I’m glad it’s out between us now. It’s over and done with and we can-“ he cuts himself off, not entirely sure _ what _ they can do now. He knows what he _ should _ do, but he’s never been very good about doing that. “Move on,” he finishes lamely. 

“Right,” Crowley echos, with an equal measure of uncertainty, “Move on…” 

They both fall silent, and for Ezra it’s maddening. He can’t stand this- this _not_ _knowing_ where they stand. For too long they’ve wobbled on a delicate tightrope of uncertainty, of trepidation. All because Ezra has been afraid. He thinks his fear is not unfounded, not with the trials that have taken place in recent years. But Ezra also knows that his misery of being without Beatrice- _Anthony- _is far greater than than the fear that used to seize him by the throat and threaten to strangle him. 

If this winter has taught him anything, it’s that he cannot bear to go the rest of his life without Anthony in it. Risk be damned; if Anthony isn’t worth fighting for, then what on this earth is? 

Eventually the silence becomes too much for Ezra and he says the first thing that pops into his head that isn’t an outright confession of his absolute love and devotion: 

“I received your letter-“ he stops, realizes how utterly foolish _ that _ had been to say. “Which, of course you _ know_. You wrote back to mine.” He wrings his hands together and looks down, and a huff of nervous laughter escapes him. “Oh, _ God.” _

It’s enough to break the tension between them. Crowley laughs, softly. “It’s alright. I’m glad you wrote back. I admit… I worried that maybe Jane lost the letter, or…” he trails off, not finishing the sentence. It doesn’t matter. Ezra knows what he’s implying. 

“I wrote the moment I read it,” he assures him. “I only regret it took me so long to return to The White Rabbit. If I’d known you’d written…” 

“It’s alright,” Crowley assures him. He’s standing stiffly, almost like a soldier waiting for his orders. Ezra briefly entertains the thought of what Crowley might look like in a uniform, and has to abruptly shove that thought away. It’s not appropriate to be caught up in a daydream when they’re still walking on eggshells with each other. 

“I liked the poem,” He says after a moment, a little helplessly. 

Ezra huffs out a nervous laugh. “Oh. Good. I… it’s not the _ happiest _ of poems, but-” 

“Not really the _ happiest _ of situations we were just in.” 

“No,” Ezra agrees, “Indeed not.” 

Another stretch of silence builds between them, until Crowley can no longer stand it. “I missed you,” he says softly, swaying a little, almost as if he plans to step forward, but then thinks better of it. 

“I missed you as well,” Ezra breathes, meeting Crowley’s gaze once more and finding it too intense for him. He glances away, wrings his hands together again. “I’m suddenly realizing why I liked the masks so much. You never had to see me like this.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Crowley tilt his head curiously. “Like what?” 

Ezra lets out a shaky, uncertain sound. “A nervous, bumbling fool.” 

A smile tugs at Crowley’s lips and this time he does take a step forward. “We’re _ both _fools, I think,” he says as he takes another step forward. Then another. “I like you better without the mask. And cream suits you.” He approaches Ezra, stops when he’s with arms reach of him. Stretching his hand out, he brushes his fingers over the tartan cravat tied around Ezra’s throat. “The tartan is charming, too.” 

Ezra swallows thickly; can’t make himself look up to where Crowley is just before him, fingers still playing with the fabric of his cravat. “Th- thank you,” he whispers, breathless. “Oh, god I wish I were wearing a mask. I wish _ you _ were wearing one. It was so much easier.”

“I don’t want easy,” Crowley says simply, “I just want you, Ezra.” 

Ezra looks sharply at him, but anything he might have said dies on his tongue as he meets Crowley’s gaze. “You are,” he breathes, “_ Distractingly _handsome. I can’t seem to think a single coherent thought with you so close.” 

Crowley cups Ezra’s chin. “That’s alright. I can’t think of anything other than how desperately I want to kiss you.” 

Ezra wants that too. Oh, how he wants to kiss him. 

“We should probably talk first,” he manages to say instead.

Crowley nods. “Probably should. Responsible thing, that.” 

Crowley doesn’t move; doesn’t say anything. He’s leaving it all up to Ezra, which on the one hand Ezra hates, but he equally can’t help but appreciate that Crowley is leaving the decision to him. Anthony had made it clear what he wants, that day in The White Rabbit. Now it’s time for Ezra to figure out what he wants. 

It’s much easier than he thought it would be. 

“I don’t want to talk right now,” he murmurs decidedly as he grabs the lapels of Anthony’s coat and pulls him down, until there is nothing at all between them. 

They’ve shared a multitude of kisses ranging from soft and chaste, to hot and desperate. This is unlike any of their previous kisses, and the only thing Ezra can pinpoint for the change is the fact that, for the first time, he’s kissing _ Anthony _. He knows his name, knows who he is. They’ve most likely attended the same parties before, though they neither one run in similar social circles. They’ve probably passed one another on the street. So close, and yet they’d been so far from each other. But all that distance, everything that might have kept them apart has diminished into nothing, and the only thing separating them now is a few layers of clothing and an understanding that they need to have a Very Important Discussion. 

Eventually the kiss slows, and as Ezra breaks the kiss, the only thing he can do, the only thing he can say is, “Oh… _ Anthony…” _

From where he is pressed against him, Ezra can feel the shiver that races through Crowley’s body. He pulls back just enough to look up at him, and sees the visceral reaction that saying his name has caused. Crowley’s eyes are blown wide, his jaw is dropped. His heart feels like the rumblings of a stampede beneath his chest. 

“Oh… _ God…” _ Crowley sighs, letting his forehead fall forward to press against Ezra’s. “I have _ dreamed _ of this… of you saying my name…” 

“I’ll say it as much as you like, now I know it.” 

“Please…” 

“_Anthony…” _ the name is punctuated with a kiss to the man’s cheek. “ _ Anthony,” _ he whispers again, pressing a kiss to the other side. “ _ Anthony _ ,” he sighs, taking Anthony’s head in his hands and stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. “Oh, my darling _ Anthony.” _

“_Ezra…” _ Crowley groans before he apparently can’t take it anymore, and with a surprising amount of strength and grace, shoves Ezra backward toward the nearest wall, his head narrowly missing a wall sconce as he collides with the wall an instant before Anthony’s lips collide with his in a scorching, desperate kiss. 

Crowley’s kiss is wild; a desperate, untamed thing that seizes Ezra’s mouth and doesn’t relent. He takes and he gives with a feverish passion, as if he were trying to drink from the well of Ezra’s soul. Ezra relents, letting himself be overcome by the force of Crowley’s desire; knows his own is just as deep and fierce and wanting. It doesn’t matter that they shouldn’t; it doesn’t matter that they could be caught at any moment. All Ezra can think of is the hard press of Crowley against him, lips devouring as equally as they are devoured. Unable to help himself, he wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist and squeezes him closer, until both are painfully aware of the effect they have on the other. 

Crowley groans as he’s practically manhandled, and clutches his fingers into Ezra’s hair, holding him so tight it borders on uncomfortable. Ezra’s hands slide up and down Crowley’s back, one rising to grip the hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck while the other slides lower, squeezing his good hip before wrapping around to clutch his ass and press him even closer. 

If the sound that emits from Crowley is any indication, he rather enjoyed that, and so Ezra repeats the gesture, sliding his leg out a little so that when he presses Crowley to him once more, his good leg slips in between Ezra’s thighs. 

They’d always been careful not to get _ too _carried away at The White Rabbit. They’d certainly failed on a few occasions, but overall had exercised a practiced caution so as not to become too lost in each other. Just another mask to add to the pile. But in this moment there are no masks- physical or metaphorical- to prevent them from being exactly what they know they are: utterly and unabashedly in love. 

At some point, Crowley begins shaking, and through the haze of desire and relief and arousal Ezra worries that something is wrong. But then Crowley’s kiss devolves until he’s simply grinning against Ezra’s lips, and when Ezra opens his eyes, he can see that Crowley is _ laughing_. 

“What?” Ezra asks dazedly, as he tries to tilt his head away. He’s pressed flat against the wall, so there’s nowhere else for him to go. 

“Nothing,” Crowley says, keeping his forehead pressed to Ezra’s, nuzzling against him in unreserved contentment. “Just… happy, I suppose.” 

If Ezra is honest with himself- and he rarely allows himself to be, knowing the dangers such a thing could bring- he understands perfectly the weight of what Crowley is saying. Not once in all their acquaintance have either of them been truly happy. There have been moments of revelry, of peace and of contentment, but happiness has long been a luxury neither of them could afford. Happiness is reserved for others who don’t have quite as much to lose as the two of them. No one goes to the White Rabbit because they are _ happy _, even if the pageantry might deftly disguise such a fact. 

Ezra has never been happy, that he can recall. Always the black sheep of his family, he’d been more relieved than _ happy _ when he decided to purchase the bookshop. He’d been more grateful than _ happy _ to find a secret society for men like him. He’d been content with the occasional evening with Beatrice, but not _ happy _ . Happiness was all the things Crowley had offered him that night so many months ago that he’d rejected. Courting one another, _ knowing _ one another in public. Having more than just secret trysts in a painted up warehouse. 

In this moment however, locked in a library in a Baroness’s home, with near a hundred or more guests just scarce feet away, wrapped up in the arms of a man he’s long since come to understand he _ loves _, Ezra feels a strange sensation in his chest, warm and bubbling and exotic. 

He doesn’t know what name to put to it, but he has his suspicions. And moreover, he knows now he can never let go of this feeling. 

Or the man who inspires it. 

“I love you,” Ezra breathes. He hadn’t meant to say it, but now it’s out, he’s glad for it. He decides to repeat it. “I should have told you then. I should have told you when I wrote to you. I shall tell you every day for the rest of my life: I love you, Anthony Crowley.” 

A sound that’s a mix of a laugh and a sob is his answer, followed by a kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs against Ezra’s lips. 

“I’m still so afraid,” Ezra admits when they pull away, just barely. As he speaks he can feel his lip brush against Crowley’s, and it’s so deliciously distracting, he can hardly form the words he needs to say. He can taste the salt of the tears that slide down Anthony’s cheek. He can hear him breathing and feel that pounding heartbeat against his chest. 

All those sensations inspire a reckless sort of bravery: they can do this. 

“I don’t know how we can do this; I don't know how we can be together. I think I will always be looking over my shoulder in fear…but I cannot be without you, _ that _I know with absolute certainty.” 

Crowley’s hands move; wrap around Ezra’s shoulders in a constrictor-tight hug. “We’ll figure things out,” he whispers with a certainty that makes it impossible for Ezra to doubt him. “Whatever form this takes- we’ll be together… and that’s all that matters to me.” 

“Oh, my love..” Feeling bold, Ezra leans up to kiss Crowley once more. They lose themselves to it. Sometime later, Crowley leans back and looks at Ezra with eyes that sparkle with mischief. 

“Tell me more about this bookshop of yours,” he requests through labored breath, “I may have an idea.” 

Ezra presses Crowley closer to him. “I can’t wait to hear it." 

* * *

  
  


_ Three months later _

The London season is in full swing. Once, Lord Ezra Fell would have lamented at being forced by his family into high society only to be ignored and mocked for not being exactly what he ought to be. He’s respected by most people: his expertise and knowledge often called upon by those who recognize his worth- but his family is blind to any accolades he might receive in favor of sneering at their ‘rather peculiar little brother’. 

He still hates these balls; he _ especially _ hates when he is the host. But this evening, he can’t find himself to mind all that much. Especially not when he’s being dragged down an empty hallway by an enthusiastic Crowley. 

“Someone will notice,” he whispers, only because protesting is expected of him. 

“It’s _ fine _, Ezra,” Crowley says as he limps down the hall, clearly in hunt for a particular room. 

“We’re going to get caught,” Ezra remarks as he tugs on Crowley’s hand to make him slow down. Even with his injury, he can still swagger and saunter with the best of them. 

“We will be if you don’t quit stopping us in the hall to protest! Now are you coming with me or not?” 

Ezra huffs, rolls his eyes, and pouts. “I suppose.” 

It has the intended effect. Crowley steps forward, crowding him, and he tugs on that lip with his teeth before stepping back. “Come on,” he says, a devious smirk on his lips, “I have _ plans _ for you.” 

“Are they similar to the plans you had for me earlier when you nearly made us late to the party _ which we are hosting to celebrate our new business partnership?!” _

Crowley finds the door he’s looking for, opens it, then peeks inside to ensure it’s empty. When he’s satisfied, he turns to face Ezra, and his expression is nothing short of wicked. 

“Oh, Ezra... these plans are _ much better_.” 

* * *

Ezra is pressed against a wall, clinging to Anthony as he tries to keep his hips from jerking forward as Anthony sucks another bruise onto Ezra’s already colorful neck. He’s grateful for the current fashion, that men’s necks are covered and buttoned up to the extent that they are, or else he would be in grave trouble, considering how much Crowley likes to kiss color onto the pale flesh. 

“_ Oh, darling,” _ Ezra sighs as Anthony’s hands slide down, coming to rest over Ezra’s trousers. “ _ Mmm,” _he shakes his head, tugging Crowley away from him. “Your leg, my love.”

“Worth it,” Crowley murmurs as he keeps spreading desperate kisses over every expanse of exposed skin on Ezra’s body. It’s limited, at the moment, but Crowley is happy to work with what he’s got. 

“I disagree,” Ezra pants, near utter distraction. “Besides,” he says, using his surprising strength to gently push Crowley away. “If anyone is getting on their knees, it will be _ me _ for _ you.” _

“Oh, _ fuck…” _Crowley groans as he’s moved, pressed against the wall like Ezra had been only moments before. “Not going to argue with you, Mr. Fell.” 

“Good, Mr. _ and Co, _” Ezra says, satisfied. He presses a kiss to Crowley’s lips before sinking to his knees and placing his hands on Crowley’s belt. “I still think you should have added your name to the store front.” 

“Nah,” Crowley says, distracted and annoyed that his lover is choosing to discuss business _ now. _“M’just the investor. Not a businessman. Let’s not argue about this again.” 

“Fine,” Ezra agrees as he undoes Crowley’s clothing, freeing his erection from his trousers. “You can use the energy you’ll save arguing with me to moan my name instead.” 

“Oh, you _ beautiful bastard!” _ Crowley gasps, shocked by the lewd manner in which his lover speaks. It’s not often Ezra can be persuaded to engage in such language, but when he does… _ oh, _ does it drive Crowley wild. He’d never imagined his timid, mild-mannered lover who had spent months agonizing over their relationship and the details of how it might be event remotely plausible to be so _ enthusiastic _ about sneaking off together for a few minutes of sexual gratification. 

Not that he’s complaining. 

Ezra manages to get his Crowley’s clothing out of the way, freeing him from his constraints before leisurely stroking his tongue down Anthony’s length, savoring him as if they had all the time in the world. 

“Ezra, _ please.” _

“Patience, my darling one.” 

Crowley huffs, head falling back against the wall with a _ thud _ . “Heh…. you’re the one worried about getting cau- _ ahhh- _ght!” 

He can feel the smirk that forms on Ezra’s lips, even as he continues sucking his cock, and Crowley groans with just how _ good _ it feels. Ezra continues to pleasure him, making small little hums of contentment that Crowley can feel more than hear, and the sensation causes him to groan with need. He knows- despite only having the pleasure of being Ezra’s lover for three months- that Ezra likes to take his time with such endeavors. There is nothing quick about the way Ezra gives or receives pleasure. He _ savors _ it, and while at first Crowley thought it had been because of his fear of them being found out, he knows now that it’s because his Ezra is a terrible glutton, and when it comes to food, wine, books, or Anthony himself, Ezra prefers to _ enjoy _ himself to the fullest, and that means he does not rush. 

Nevermind the worry of being caught, though; Crowley is just utterly desperate to come. 

Ezra, however, is content with the leisurely pace he’s set, alternating between swallowing Crowley down and releasing him to indulge in licking and kissing and biting his thighs or fondling his balls. 

“Damn it all, Ezra, _ please _!” 

Ezra releases him and looks up, and he might look innocent if it weren’t for the fact that he is licking a smear of pre-come from his bottom lip. 

“My dear,” he says in that tone Anthony has come to recognize as _ annoyed _. “You are the one who wanted to achieve sexual gratification in the library during our party. I am merely obliging that request, and I will do so at my leisure. Now, shall I get on with it, or are you going to continue complaining about my not going fast enough for you?” 

“You are a _ bastard,” _Crowley growls; he’s never loved someone as much as he loves Ezra in this moment. 

Ezra gives him a pleased look, then takes Crowley into his mouth once more, slow and deep, and this time Crowley throws his head back and gives himself over to the excruciating pleasure of being loved.

Later, when he’s been wrung dry by Ezra’s ministrations, he slides to the floor, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Ezra tisks as he pulls out a handkerchief to dab at his lips as if he’d just finished a fine meal. 

“You know,” Ezra remarks dryly after regarding Crowley for a moment, “I offered to get on my knees to keep _ you _ off the floor. If you’ve caused yourself pain by being _over-dramatic_, I shall be quite vexed.” 

“Well, M’not on my knees, am I,” Crowley remarks as he adjusts, pressing his back to the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. “I’m knocked flat on my arse, because _ you _ are incapable of being quick about our trysts.” 

Ezra scoffs. “It isn’t worth doing if we’re just going to rut against each other like a couple of animals in order to finish as quickly as possible. If I’m going to sneak off with you, I’m going to ensure it’s worth the risk.” 

“Oh, it’s worth it, alright,” Crowley remarks, holding out his hand as a sign to his lover that he needs assistance getting back onto his feet. Ezra moves to him and uses that surprising strength he keeps hidden under a plump, soft figure to help lift Crowley to his feet. Bending down, he retrieves Crowley’s cane and hands it to him as well. Once he’s steady, Crowley leans forward and kisses Ezra, warm, wet, and holding a promise for later. 

“We should return. We’re going to be missed,” Ezra murmurs dazedly. 

“I’ll go first. Wait three minutes, then follow me.” 

They share another kiss, and after Crowley does a cursory check to make sure his person is all in order, he moves toward the door. 

“Anthony?” 

Crowley turns, unable to hide the smile on his face. “Yes, Ezra?” He asks, and watches a twin smile form on Ezra’s lips. After so long of not knowing one another’s names, they now use them as frequently as possible.

“I love you.” 

The smile on Crowley’s face grows, and he lowers his tinted spectacles to wink at his partner. “Love you too.” 

Even from across the room, Ezra can see the way Anthony’s eyes shimmer and sparkle, golden and warm, and all for him. 

It’s as beautiful as he always knew it would be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
(1) Song of Myself (Section 5) by Walt Whitman  
(2) The Cornelian by Lord Byron 
> 
> The quote Crowley and Ezra recite together: "We are all men. In our own nature’s frail, and capable of our flesh. Few are angels." is from Act V, Scene III of Henry VIII. 
> 
> "Victora" is Prince Albert Victor. He allegedly used the name "Victoria" when he went to gentlemen's clubs. 
> 
> Technically, I don't think places like this used masks, but when I started the story, I based a lot of it around Ezra and Crowley not actually knowing who the other _ really _ was, so I kept the mask thing in. 
> 
> The scene where men are wearing nurses outfits and a man is screaming while pretending to give birth is a real, legit thing that was apparently done in mollyhouses, and it was too interesting not to at least mention it. 
> 
> Crowley's estate is in a vague southern-ish place similar to Bath, with hot springs and such. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed!!! A sequel that takes place after _ Refrain _ will be up soon. Hopefully before the New Year.


End file.
